The Devil Wears Tartan by Karen Ranney Read Free Book Online

chin up, shoulders back. Her combative look, her aunt would have said.
    Was she being combative? Or was she simply protecting herself? And what a horrid thought to have on her wedding night.
    There was something about him that radiated power. Perhaps it was being an earl. Perhaps it was having been on so many diplomatic missions when he spoke for the Crown. Whatever quality it was, she felt it now, almost as if it traveled from him in waves. Or perhaps it wasn’t power at all.
    “Are you an evil man, Marshall?”
    His small smile indicated approval of the use of his name.
    “An interesting question,” he said. “If I were evil I doubt I’d know it. Evil normally doesn’t recognize itself. Shall I answer no, Davina? Would that reassure you?”
    “Must we do this?” she asked abruptly, glancing toward the bedchamber. A single gas lamp was lit behind the closed door. Would he extinguish it before completing the act?
    “I’m afraid we must,” he said. “Otherwise it will be like being thrown from a horse. You’ll never want to ride, and for the rest of your life you’ll be curious and perhaps a little regretful.”
    She stared at him, incredulous. “Have you just equated bedding me to riding a horse?”
    “There are those who say that the act is not dissimilar,” he said.
    There were tall blue and white porcelain urns at each corner of the fireplace, and a small mahogany table beside the chair where he sat. A green jade dragon with red ruby eyes sat on the mantel, its long tail undulating across the mahogany surface.
    Marshall looked entirely too much at home in this very strange room.
    She came and sat on the adjoining chair. She folded the nightgown around her legs modestly in an attempt to hide the fact that the material was diaphanous and too revealing.
    He glanced at her and then away, and for that unconscious act of kindness, she felt a little warmth toward him. Not only was he handsome, but he possessed a sense of chivalry.
    He clenched his hand repeatedly. Was he as nervousas she? He turned his head and looked at her again as if he’d heard the question.
    They stared at each other for several long moments.
    “Then shall we do it?” she asked, standing. This act was going to happen; she might as well get it done. Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the connecting door and opened it, revealing the bedchamber with its very large bed.
    She didn’t turn to see if he followed her as she walked to the three steps at the side of the bed. Only then did she take off the wrapper, tossing it to the foot of the mattress. The nightgown was a sheer and delicate column of snow-colored fabric that was gathered at the neck and left her shoulders bare. The garment clung to her breasts and the curve of her hips and buttocks before falling to swirl around her ankles.
    There was not one degree of modesty left her, and for that reason, Davina covered herself up with the sheet. She lay back against the pillow, her gaze on the crimson silk above her.
    “It’s not truly like this,” he said.
    She turned her head to find him standing beside the bed, a look on his face that she’d not seen before. Was it kindness she saw in his eyes, or tenderness? Or did he simply pity her ignorance?
    Perhaps she could tolerate kindness, and even welcome tenderness, but she would not be pitied, even by an earl.
    She sat up, folding her arms in front of her, the better to hide her nearly bare breasts.
    “You were lying there like a sacrifice,” he said. “I can understand how you might think so, but it needn’t be that way. I don’t want you to fear me.”
    At her silence, he continued. “You’ve never harmed me, Davina. I shall not harm you.”
    From the moment she’d met him he had not done or said anything she expected. She didn’t like feeling uncertain, and it made her irritated, but when she frowned at him, he only smiled in response.
    “Who are you?” she asked. “Who is Marshall Ross, Earl of Lorne? I don’t